I Got It, I Got It... KONK!

Oh, the pain that is the middle school gym class for the 6th grade intellectual. Apparently, today in P.E., Mr. Z got hit on the top of the noggin with a football. He said "Someone kicked it really high and then I looked up and it konked me right on the head." I asked him if he thought of maybe, oh I don't know, catching said ball, but he looked at me as if to say, "Why the shit would I want to do that?!" He summed it up by stating, "I'm not the kinda guy to play football... I like cute things. Stuffed animals, Pokemon... cute farts."

Of course, I explained to him that that sort of information is best kept on the D.L. while actually IN gym class.

I then reminded him that, while he may not particularly care for football, he is hardly "non-athletic." He likes to ride his bike and run around, he hikes at camp all summer, and he loves swimming. Like it or not, Mr. Z, you're actually kinda sporty, dude.

We're trying to break him of the "it's me vs. the jocks" attitude he's been cultivating, of late. But it's really fucking hard to do when his neanderthal gym teacher keeps reinforcing the boneheaded us vs. them gym class environment. He picks all the athletic kids as captains and then they pick and pick until they're left with the nerdarino dregs. You'd think by 2008 these chuckleheads would've come up with a more equitable sorting method.

Attention, Coach Nutsack, here's an idea: how 'bout counting off by twos, ya fuck!

Anywhich, we've assured Mr. Z that he's only gotta suffer through about seven more years of gym class and then he can trade in his jockstrap for a life of the mind. In the meantime, I think I'll send him to school tomorrow in a helmet.

Volun-tearing Me a New One...

Mr. Z and I volunteered our services to the Obama campaign headquarters in Lansing yesterday and it turned out to be a surprisingly great experience. They called last week and asked if I wanted to help out, saying I could do things like canvassing, calling people and/or STUFFING ENVELOPES. "YES!" I said. "I CAN HANDLE STUFFING ENVELOPES! SIGN ME UP!!!!" What better way to support the campaign and teach my son the importance of participating in the democratic process than by folding paper and licking glue. (And it was just a bonus that I wouldn't have to come in contact with any actual PEOPLE.)

So, after getting lost for about a 1/2 hour, the boy and I finally pulled up to the headquarters and bopped on in to start a-lickin' paper. But as soon as I talked to the man-boy in charge there (who I'm pretty sure was about 15 1/2), I learned that there would be no envelope stuffing. No sir... I was handed a clipboard, pen and a stack of voter registration sheets and told "Now get on out there and get some people registered!"

Son of a shitfuck.

I am SO not a clipboard-holdin', voter-registerin', stranger-going-up-to-in' kinda dude. I'm really not into "dealing" with "people." I'm not a "go-getter." I don't like "humans." But there I was, clipboard in hand, heading on over to the goddamn Frandor mall to walk the parking lot, trolling for victims.

And it did kinda suck. Basically, everyone we went up to was already registered -- it was mostly families heading over to the Halloween USA temporarium, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' grannies shuffling over to Jo-Ann fabrics, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' moms checking out Michaels Crafts-n-Which, or polyester sweatsuit-wearin' families heading over to Sears to buy more polyester sweatsuits. Everyone was very pleasant, though, and a lot of people asked where they could get an Obama shirt like mine, and it was heartening to realize that everyone seemed to be registered (and supporting Obama)... which is a good thing.

But it was hot as shit and when Mr. Z said, "Dad, this really isn't as fun as I thought it was going to be," I realized we needed to switch locales, and quick. So, I checked our list of "hot spots" and I thought we'd do better closer to downtown, so we loaded up the car and headed on over to the Rite-Aid on MLK Boulevard.

Bingo!

And by bingo, I mean that we signed up ONE person, instead of ZERO. But hey, one is good, goddammit! That woman could very well be the deciding vote! And it'd all be thanks to crabbydad and Mr. Z! You're welcome, future!

So, yeah, one person registered in three hours. But shit, it was probably more than you did for the country this weekend, by gum. It did feel good to finally get off my pointy ass and do something, though, instead of just complaining about things and just thinking that I should really get off my pointy ass and do something. And it kinda demystified the whole volunteering thing and showed me that three hours out of a whole weekend is not a lot of time if you feel like you're actually doing something positive, even if it's only in a kinda puny way. And I think it was good to show Mr. Z that it's important to get involved in causes that are bigger than you or your family or your video games and that if a whole shitload of people get out there and just do a puny bit, it can actually end up having a huge fucking impact.

But most of all, I realized that, if you're going to go out with a clipboard in your hand and interrupt strangers on their relaxing Saturday afternoon by talking politics at them, it's very wise to bring along your 10 year old kid with you if you don't want to get punched in the head.

Cheesus!

Some people see Jesus in their wet beef sandwiches, while others find the Virgin Mary in their plate of pulled pork. Me? I slice a piece of Jarlsburg and end up with a fucking SKULL SANDWICH!



Maybe tomorrow I'll just have a Tim-Burton-butter-and-jelly sammy.

1 + 1 = I'm A Moron

So I was helping Mr. Z with his math homework, this afternoon, and it mostly consisted of converting metric measurements from one size to another, like kilograms to grams or millimeters to centimeters and shit like that. At first I was like, "ah, no fucking problem," but as I was trying to explain it to him, my withered synapses fucking seized up on me and I found myself rapidly spinning down some bottomless numerical vortex, and I began second-guessing every answer and well, frankly, it got pretty ugly pretty quick.

We made it through to the other side with only a few tears (and he was pretty upset, too) and then we closed the book and I let him watch some Spongebob so that any trace amounts of understanding he may have gleaned from our little study session were instantly erased and replaced with "GAAAAHHHHHHH!"

So, the Old Lady gets home around dinner time and I started explaining what an ass-ripper this fucking math homework was, you know, to get the rightful sympathy props, and I even handed her the textbook to show her the devil's handiwork contained within. She looks it over and says, "Well, here's all you need: 'If you're going from a larger measurement to smaller one, you multiply and if you're going from smaller to larger, you divide.' What's the trouble?" I grabbed the book from her in the classic Moe Howard way, adding the requisite, "Lemme see that, you!" and soon realized that if I had only READ THE GODDAMN DIRECTIONS FIRST, the fucking hour long battle that I had put the boy and myself through would have been, maybe, a 20 minute skirmish, and I wouldn't have wasted all that valuable stomach acid that was at that moment bubbling up my ulcer-studded esophagus.

And the kicker? As the Old Lady casually glanced over the answers, she found that four or five of them were TOTALLY WRONG and that I had basically told Mr. Z to do the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do.

Have I mentioned that I'm not that good with the math? What the shit, man?! I really thought I knew what the fuck I was doing, too! That's what makes it worse. It would have been one thing if I were like, "Shit, man, I just don't get this... you're on your own, Mr. Z," but NO, I had FIGURED IT OUT and I was HELPING HIM to FIGURE IT OUT FOR HIMSELF!

So, whereas he was only mildly confused BEFORE he started his homework, now he is TOTALLY fucking confused.

Excellent, my work here is done.

And if any of you care to do any extra credit, here's one of the problems:

On Sunday, Li ran 0.8 km. On Monday, she ran 7,200 m. On which day did Li run farther? Use estimation to explain why your answer makes sense.

(HINT: The fact that "Li" is the 2nd most common surname in China is, apparently, not really relevant.)

Should I Stay or Should I Go... to School

For some reason, I'm more confident in picking out Miss O's outfits this school year. This is either due to the fact that I'm just better at picking out things that go together or, more likely, that I've stopped giving a shit about what goes together and I'm just picking out things that I would wear, were I a six-year-old girl. Case in point, today's outfit:



Clash shirt, b/w, horizontally striped leggings and Chucks. I'd SO wear that if I were six. Shit, if they made that outfit in my size, I'd wear it tomorrow.

(By the way, Miss O just fell out of bed as I was typing this. I heard a "thud/AHH!" and ran into her room to find her climbing back in to her bed. I asked her what happened and she said, "I fell out of bed" in a way that made it sound more like "I fucking fell outta bed, ya dumbshit, whattya think just happened?!" I blame thank the Clash shirt for the 'tude.)

Come Back... Come Baaaaaaaack...

Mr. Z's been riding his bike to the middle school this year, and he's asked me to ride along with him ("only to the path leading up to the school") until he feels comfortable going it alone. He says he should be ready to fly solo by Monday.

Unfortunately, I won't be.

Who's The Boob Now?

Ah, the perils of telecommuting.

So, you may or may not know (care?) that while I live in Michigan, I work in Chicago... via TV. I have a camera here, they have a camera there, I can see them, they can see me, blee, blah, blew -- it's all very Jetsons. That is, if the Jetsons were real people and really fucking boring and instead of the totally hot Judy Jetson, there'd be me. Correction -- her mom Jane was way hotter, but then I've always had a thing for cartoon redheads.

Anywhich, the part of the company that I do most of my work for has recently moved upstairs, to a different space. In this new space is an extra room that's used for various things, such as testing games, having brainstorms, conducting testing on new ideas, etceterblah. This room is also known as the "nursing room," where one of the employees, who has recently spawned, secretes herself a couple of times daily to, well, secrete nourishment for said spawnage. It's great that she has a nice room in which to do her pumpage, and, so far, it hasn't been a big deal, except for the fact that I think a couple of the spawnless workers are a little ookie about what's "going on" in there.

So, cut to today. We had set up a couple of times to test this new game we're working on, and, toward the end of the first testing session, I had to excuse myself to go pick up Miss O from school. By the time I got back home, gave her and Mr. Z a snack and got them settled in with their homework, I popped back upstairs to see if I could catch the second testing session.

When I got to my room, the TV connection had disconnected, which happens a lot. Whenever there's a fucking hiccup in the network, either the camera freezes, or it cuts the connection. No biggie. I picked up the remote, hit redial and waited for the other camera to answer.

Well, it answered, all right. But instead of phoning into the testing session, I had, inadvertantly, dialed into A MILKING SESSION!

Luckily, I hit the disconnect button before I had time to really "latch-on" to what had happened. I felt horrible and IM'd frantically to my co-workers, telling them to apologize for me and explain that it was TOTALLY an accident and that I didn't see ANYTHING and, even if I did, which I DIDN'T, it wasn't anything I hadn't seen thousands of times before when the Old Lady was pumping to provide milky nourishment for the spawnage.

And when everyone convinced me that it was finally okay to dial in again (after about 100 IMs querying "Really?" "Are you SURE?" "You're not fucking with me, are you?" "I'll kill you if she's still in there!"), I was able to apologize to her "in person," and she assured me that it was no biggie, and that my sudden, shocking appearance hadn't caused her milk ducts to dry up, and that the La Leche League wasn't going to show up at my door and beat me senseless with breast pumps and rubber nipples.

I'm such a jackass.

Dad, I Want to Be in a Jug Band...

Tonight's bedtime chat with Mr. Z:

MR. Z: If I ever have a punk rock band, I'm going to call myself 'Saggy Boobs.'

ME: Saggy Boobs?! Where did you get that?!

MR. Z: It's like that guy Iggy Pop. [pause] Saggy Boobs! [laughing hysterically]

ME: [trying not to laugh as hysterically and failing miserably] What would your band be called. Saggy Boobs and the what?

MR. Z: [thinking] Saggy Boobs and the... Breast Avengers!

ME: [nose laugh almost sending giant snot ball across room]

MR. Z: [suddenly serious] But that's only my nickname. My real name would be Sagbert Boobyoolus.

[silence]

[We both fucking lose it.]

ME: All right, c'mon. That's enough. Now try to chill out and go to sleep. And please don't tell any of this to your mom.

MR. Z: I won't. [chuckling to self] Heh... Saggy Boobs...

Is it wrong that part of me really wants him to form that band?

Why Don't YOU Shower and I'LL Show Her...

Now that Mr. Z's in middle school, recess is, as Heidi Klum says, "out" and gym-class-every-day is "in." The boy's not too thrilled with that concept, being an "inside kid" and all. But he's a trooper and he's rolling with it. And along with daily gym class comes the ol' post-gym-class NUDE SHOWER! I remember 'splainin' this to the boy before the year started and he was basically like, "Seriously?! I have to shower with a buncha dudes at the same time... with all our wieners showing and everything?!" But he seemed fairly cool with the idea, so I dropped the wiener-talk.

Well, cut to last week, and Mr. Z tells me that when the gym teacher told them to "hit the showers," he and his friend Mr. J were the ONLY TWO DUDES WHO HIT SAID SHOWERS! And it's been that way ever since! I asked him about it and he said, "Everyone else makes some kind of excuse, like 'I don't want to get my hair wet,' or 'I already showered this morning,' but I was all sweaty and it would've been totally gross going to class like that."

Hear hear, Mr. Z! Let's hear it for logic and a keen understanding of personal hygiene (read: 10-year-old-assfunk). The boy is fearless! I asked him if it was weird being one of the only kids to shower, and he said, "No... why?" EXACTLY! It's not weird to shower when you're all sweaty. What's fucking weird is running around for a half an hour, peeling off your drenched gym togs, and then sliding your slimy ass and all that pre-pubescent fromunda cheese back into your clean nappies. Let that heady brew stew for the rest of the day and you, my friend, have got yourself a recipe for a yeasty, smoldering case of rotting generals.

I've spent all this time worrying about Mr. Z making the transition to middle school, what with him being a coupla years younger than everyone else in his class, but here he is chillaxin' and just being a total dude. (By the way, he used the word "chillaxin'" the other day and I almost snorked an entire turkey sandwich outta my left nostril, I laughed so hard.) Anywhich, there may still be some rough patches to come, this year, but I'm tellin' ya, the boy is just doing a stellar job in the going-with-the-flowage department.

Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, when the fuck did showering after gym class become optional?! I remember Mr. Batista, at Shepherd Jr. High, standing there every goddamn day eyeballin' every single one of our pinkie-sized dorks, not checking off our names on his fucking clipboard until he deemed our micro marble pouches sufficiently spotless and sparkly. It was fucking creepy as hell and may be the reason that, today, I can only shower fully clothed.

But leave it to my son the naturist to reclaim the shower area for the crabbyfamily! And to show him just how proud I am, tomorrow I shall bathe sockless!

Spreadin' Those Nuts on a Daily Basis...

Peaner-burr and jelly. That's what Mr. Z has eaten for lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY since he started going to school. Literally. He even eats it for lunch at home. That's peaner-burr and jelly in second grade, third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade and now sixth grade -- every fucking day.

Don't get me wrong -- I love peaner-burr. Still slap together an occasional nutty/jelly-y treat myself, now and again. But when I was a wee crablette, I varied the fucker up a little. PB&J one day, a Carl Buddig turkey and mustard sammy the next. You remember Carl Buddig -- that sliced turquee brick that was so microtome-thinly-sliced that you could practically read a fucking book through it. Ah, Carl Buddig. I remember wrapping a couple slices of that shit around a baby dill gherkin and then wrapping that in a Kraft Single and choking the whole thing down as I knelt in front of the open cold cuts drawer in my parents' fridge.

Sorry, I just ralphed up into the back of my nose for a second there.

Anywhich, I'm having a fucking fucker of a time trying to break the boy out of the PB&J death-grip he's got on his lunches. The lad will not budge. Turkey sammy? Fuck no. Chicken salad? Nuh-uh. Tuna? Are you fucked?! I could be a real dick and stick a hard-boiled egg in his lunch, like my mom used to do to me, but I consider that a form of child abuse, so that's out. I'm seriously starting to worry that he's gonna get some sort of peaner-burr-related affliction. Like a peanut-butter goiter, or peanut-burrsitis.

I'm beseeching you, dear reader -- gimme some suggestions! There's gotta be some sort of non-legume-and-jelled-fruit-based sandwich making material out there that he'll allow to pass into his peanut-burr-caked maw. What is it?! Oh, and as the boy stated to a waitress who asked him if he wanted bacon with his pancakes at a restaurant back in Park Ridge, IL when he was about four years old, "We don't eat mammals," so keep that in mind.

Winner gets a free CD, if I ever get around to finishing that fucker. (And to win, he must not only eat the item suggested, but must also ask to have it worked into the lunch-option rotation... a rotation that, up until now, only involves a rotating peaner-burr and jelly sammich.)

I'll Just Shut up Now...

What's the name of the phenomenon wherein you start telling your spouse about something that you think is "HEE-LARIOUS!," be it a joke (usually dirty/offensive) or a story about something that happened at work or whatever, and the minute you start to explain it, you realize that she/he is never going to find it even the least bit amusing and what the fuck were you thinking when you thought she'd actually find it funny, and as you continue down this never-ending bottomless free-fall of regret, you get more and more pissed at yourself for ever thinking this was a good idea and you end up feeling like a complete douche, most likely pissing off your spouse in the process, and you finally put yourself out of your own misery saying something like, "Eh... nevermind, it's too hard to explain and it's not really that funny, after all. Forget it."

While this pretty much happens to me daily at the crabbshack, tonight it happened while I was attempting to describe what rickrolling was to the Old Lady. See, I had just seen this great rickroll version of McCain's speech and, like a fucking moron, I thought I could describe the video to the Old Lady, somehow convincing her that it was funny and, because I was the one describing it so hilariously, that I was hilarious, as well.

Fail.

It went something like this, "So, there was this hilarious version of the blue-screen portion of McCain's speech that someone totally rickrolled and they cut up a bunch of Obama's speeches and actually had HIM singing the lyrics and... okay, lemme backup... so, rickrolling is when someone tricks someone into following a link to a Rick Astley song/video... usually "Never Gonna Give You Up"... see, it's kinda like a phony phone-call but it always ends up with a Rick Astley song and... anyway, someone spliced together Obama doing the lyrics... but the real song was playing in the background and... and then McCain's just standing there with this confused look on his face and... and the crowd was... and see Obama's up there on the... and... he... uh... Eh... nevermind, it's too hard to explain and it's not really that funny, after all. Forget it."

There's gotta be a word for that.

I'm gonna call it an "anec-d'oh!"

< Insert bad pun title here >

I've had nathan to say lately, really, hence the no typee. First, the spawnage have started school this week, so it's been a major pigfuck 'round these parts. Now that Mr. Z is in middle school (holy fuckstain?!) and Miss O is still at the elementary school, drop-offs and pickups have been impossible to figure out without a goddamn slide-rule and laser-guided miter box. And, while Mr. Z seems to be transitioning into 6th grade like a fucking champ, the stress it's causing me has been practically unbearable -- I'm tossing and turning every night, and having nightmares about showing up in class naked, with shampoo in my hair and completely unprepared for my algebra test. And I have this sinking feeling that, when I'm not looking, the Old Lady's gonna give me a swirlie and/or wedgie.

The other reason I haven't been typing is that I can't tear myself away from the fucking political blogs, of late. I'm having major electile dysfuckshit. I basically just sit here and do the bookmark rounds (one, two, three, four, five, six... and then seven just for good measure), and then I bury my head in my hands and think, "If this trigger-happy Methuselah and his fascist evangelical moose-killing-running-mate win this fucker, how quickly will I be able to move the crabbyfamily to Canda and, more importantly, do they have Trader Joe's in Toronto?"

Maybe I'll get lucky and fall into some sort of short-term coma or something. Then, if things work out in November, I'll snap out of it, but if Wrinkles McCranky pulls it outta his dusty John McAnus, well, they can just pull the ol' plug. Sounds like a plan. I'll start huffing paint thinner tomorrow.

In the meantime, I've gotta hit the sack so I can start my naked-shampoo algebra dream. Nighty-night!